


BUNRAKU Remixed

by darkJotunn (scarecrowslady)



Category: Bunraku (2010)
Genre: Anal, Angst, BDSM, Dark fic, F/M, Gang Rape, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Torture, Violence, Yoki feels, artsy-fartsy fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarecrowslady/pseuds/darkJotunn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Samurai and the Drifter's fates are intertwined - and maybe something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Laid Eyes

He had thought to return, to consider – maybe to find some clear thinking while kicking some dirty punk ass. Perhaps the Barkeep would know where he would be able to find fourty-eight thousand smackers. _Perhaps not. Probably not. Still..._ it was worth looking into, if only for a chance to get a cheap drink.

As the Drifter approached, his quick ears could already hear it – a scuffle inside – breaking glass, the rough scrape of chairs – a sharp CRASH – he stepped up and surveyed the scene before him. The tableau of violence so commonly seen in this god-forsaken land. He paused. _Or maybe not so commonly seen_.

The barkeep was there, impassive as usual, to the right, safely ensconced behind his bar. _Pianist gone_ , the Drifter noted laconically, _no music in the house tonight, folks_. As for the scruffy workers and thugs – they looked the same. No. It was the lithe figure before him. The dark, lithe figure who whirled around – caught his eye and moved into an aggressive stance, ready to take on everyone.

A familiar feeling – but the face was different – and the dark, liquid – molten – heated – eyes which stared into his. The black hair pulled back into a ponytail... which cascaded inviting over squared, tense shoulders and a firm back. He pushed through the swinging doors and stood there, silently, enjoying the shifting changes of power in the room. Behind him, the thugs scuttled out nervously, no doubt wanting to avoid the scene they had experienced the night before [ _two dead, two thousand smackers lost_ ].

There was silence. Barkeep moved some glasses around. Dark eyes clashed with dark eyes. And there was an understanding. Stances shifted and slowly relaxed. The Drifter's lips turned upward infinitesimally – as he perused the Asian. It was odd to see the slight figure of the Asian samurai in the bar – but intriguing. Still, he held his peace. A good fighter knows when the season was right – when it it or isn't a good time to show your hand.

But, there is something intoxicating about fearlessness – the muted aggression – the slim hands clenched into fists and the thin lips pressed together. He wonders what would happen if he pulled the slight samurai to him and crushed those lips underneath his. A blink. And the dream is gone.


	2. In His Eyes

Yoshi's first firm memories are his mother's eyes, soft and dark with worry and fatigue. In her arms, his newly born sister lies, tiny face scrunched up. And he feels at home.  
  
He turns – and he sees them – the dark, inscrutable eyes of his father. _Measuring him and finding him wanting_. Even then, the young boy understands that somehow he has failed. Later, Yoshi wonders if his father cast the fate of his sister so easily.  
  
It matters not. A muted challenge – a dying man's wish – has been laid down and he took it. _Why did he take it?_ He wonders this again and again. Perhaps it was the eyes – the dimmed, hopeless eyes of his father – a great man who had done great things for his village and had reaped nothing but a soft son and a weak daughter. _So I took the burden – I will retrieve the gold medallion... the purpose which held me to Jin will guide my footsteps to the end._  
  
How odd then, that on the way to the end, he meets new eyes. Brown eyes, lighter than his family, set in an inscrutable face. Promising death and violence. _And yet..._ As Yoshi raised his fist, ready to attack, ready to meet the unspoken challenge, something flickered momentarily. In silence, the tall stranger walked up to the bar, ignoring the regular bar scum and the obvious signs of a fight. The look was gone, but Yoshi remembered it – sharp and searing like a hot blade against the skin.  
  
Unnoticed, the riff-raff filtered out. Yoshi, sharply aware of the bartender's absence, flicked dark eyes quickly up at the newcomer. No sign of it. No sign of an unspoken promise. No sign of a hidden desire.  
  
He turned away and hoped that his face ( _so lively_ , his mother said, _he is full of feeling, you can't make the boy less than what he is – passion is a fire which can drive him but not for evil, not for such violence_ ) had not betrayed him. Had not betrayed acquiescence – had not begged for the hard fuck the stranger promised.  
  
When he turned, he found he could smile again.


	3. Negotiations

“I don't see how I need you to negotiate for me.”  
  
He inwardly smiles at the blunt statement – inwardly smiles down at the face which is glaring back up at him – at the fact that the short Samurai was obviously trying to tower over the taller Drifter. The muscles in his face twitched a little as he bit back on a grin which was threatening to stretch across his face. Poker face – that was what he was known for back home. It wouldn't do for his reputation to be shot thanks to a puny Samurai ( _no matter how dangerously sexy and desirable a fuck he might be..._ ).  
  
There is a silence – and the Drifter, for a few seconds, considers how easy it would for him to pull those slight shoulders toward him, to crush his own lips on those delicate ones opposite him – to worship those eyes with a hard kiss – to draw that slim waist and neat hips closer, to grind up against that hard body against the bar counter and show him the power of his - _negotiation_ \- skills.  
  
And the thought echoes through the room. He can feel it slip into the air like a toxin – and the bartender is already shifting uneasily – and there's a quality to the Samurai's eyes that seem to glimmer – until the sweet chin dips a little lower, stubbornly hiding that desire. The Drifter smiles and his fist lashes out.  
  
He is sorry now – not regretful per se – but wistful, wondering what might have been. From now on though, it would be impossible – the Drifter knows that no man dares stand up to him twice ( _unless... unless.. one is a certain Woodcutter..._ )...  
  
Against the odds – and here, he is reminded sharply of himself – the dark head rises, the eyes even harder with resolution, the muscles in the wrist jump as thin fists close and the Samurai slips into a low defensive stance.  
  
And the Drifter smiles.


	4. Equal Footing

Clouds drift low across the sky, scudding swiftly, promising rain. He sniffs the air and smells the intense quality of it – the promise – the tension – the waiting. When the Bartender ushers them into a nicely-sized barely boarded room ( _wood planks missing, you can see the grey-black clouds lowering_ ), the Drifter feels as though he has entered an intimate world – the world outside cut off – leaving only the Samurai and him.  
  
Their eyes rarely shift from each other – and the Drifter tells himself that it is a lust for blood which drives them – ( _no, no, not lust for flesh_ ) – as they grapple, lunge, punch, kick, bite, claw and throw each other. When they roll through the sand – the Samurai can feel something hard press down on his thigh and he heaves, white teeth gritted – and when he kicks – as they both lay back in the sand panting, the Samurai wonders if the Drifter would see something more in him than even he could see himself ( _I can give you my all – as I did for my father.. if you find it precious enough_ ).  
  
Both of them know the truth ( _we are a fucked up generation who can only find peace in violence and... honour in death... and truth in each other_ ). And as the sky breaks open, their eyes meet and they realize that there is something between them that neither of them can fathom. Such a realization is heavy for men who, until now, had only their fists to rely on – like release, it comes quickly – it comes quickly with the rain.  
  
 _What is he fighting for?_ The Drifter wonders as he pulls himself up – as the tension breaks like a bow – as the rain begins to fall down. _What does he find in me, particularly?_  
  
 _What is he fighting for?_ The Samurai wonders as he staggers to his feet, feeling every ache in his joints – as the rain drenches him. _What does he hope to find in me?_  
  
 _ **It is a point of interest to note that when we think the battle is fought (and won) – how often we find ourselves revisiting the same place for the same cause. In this budding relationship, the tenacity of the Samurai surprises all.**_  
  
He walks away from the Samurai, not wanting to look back – feeling that now familiar feeling rise in his chest –  not regretful per se – not a heavy regret – but an ephemeral, swift wistfulness. As he reaches for his jacket and hat, the Drifter realizes that the Bartender is approaching, limping awkwardly ( _no doubt the rain wrecked havoc with the old wound_ ) – sans parasol. The Bartender's thumb jerks back and the Drifter turns.  
  
Against the odds – and here, he is reminded sharply of himself – the dark head rises, the pale, beautiful hands ( _but no, there is hidden power in those slender wrists_ ) wrap around the parasol's bamboo handle, raised in the resolute kendo stance. Their eyes meet through the rain ( _the rain doesn't exist anymore – nothing does between them_ ) – and he recognizes the multi-layered invitation. To battle to the death. To find equality in death. To find serenity within each other. Both know that this will end with them on their knees. Together, they will fall, spent – in the bizarrely physical metaphor for the act of physical desire.  
  
The Drifter smiles.


	5. Amongst the Wolves

**_When the samurai submitted to the cuffs of the local enforcement officers, he had no real idea of what would come next..._**  
  
“I hate paperwork,” the sergeant smirked at the slight samurai, who sat before him on a low chair, hands cuffed behind his back. “Paperwork, you understan' me, is of the devil – down there with policies and taxes.”  
  
Yoshi's fleeting smile offered nothing. It was a small challenge of a sort – an “I am not intimidated by the fact that you have taken me captive” message which the sergeant recognized but did not comment on. The police officer knew it would all change within the hour.  
  
“Which is why paperwork is for the zenith of night, for the time of slow minutes and boredom,” the tall blond man smiled down at his captive as he rose from his seat to stalk around the corner of the desk and loom. “Now, is a time for...” He leaned forward. Yoshi's back stiffened. “Play.”  
  
Hard lips met hard. Yoshi tried to twist away – but the sergeant wouldn't have it. Pudgy, yet strong, fingers rose and trapped his chin immovably. Another hand lifted, fingers running up the pale, slim neck – enjoying the play of muscle and tendons which jumped with rising tension. Closing his eyes, the blond sergeant ( _Karl, to his friends_ ) forced open the Japanese man's mouth. Without thinking – on automatic – Yoshi's foot lashed out, knocking the Sergeant off his feet. At the clatter, three men rushed into the room and laughed at the sight of Yoshi sprawled over the Sergeant – the taller man hadn't the let samurai go, pulling Yoshi down with him.  
  
Yoshi gasped as he felt the man – already hard pressing up between his legs. Darting to the Sergeant, Yoshi's eyes widened at the barely contained lust found there.  
  
“He can't get enough of y'guv,” one whistled in appreciation as Yoshi tried to pull away, arching his back ( _invitingly – but he probably doesn't know it the little fucker_ ). “I'd take what's on offer – even if he's all cock.”  
“I didn't think y'd go for ass,” smirked the second. “You switchin' sides? Watch yer back, gennelmen!”  
“Hardly,” sniffed the first. “Just saying, Darby, if y'arn't afraid to seize the chance... who knows what opportunities present themselves?”  
  
More laughter.  
  
The third officer pulled Yoshi to his feet – and the second man ( _Darby_ ) abruptly fell silent at the sight of the pale, heaving chest almost fully exposed as the crumpled hakama slid back – at the sight of the wild eyes, the long tumbling ponytail and the wet, swollen lips. Small, but delicate in their thinness. Twice as beautiful matched with the murder in the slight samurai's eyes. He understood then what this was all about – power.  
  
“Y'like what yer seein', Darby?” asked Sergeant Karl. “I think we've got a treasure'ere – something a little untamed and broken – but... when I'm done with'im, yer more'n welcome to try out yer hand.”  
“He's a tough hoss, Captain,” the silent third man shook his head. “I'd be careful like if I was yer.”  
“I'm sure that he will come ta... understan' his position,” the Sergeant leaned forward again to claim Yoshi's lips.  
  
Yoshi's teeth flashed, drawing a little blood and he twisted away, trying to kick the Sergeant, but the third officer held him still, twisting his arms up painfully. Karl laughed and slapped the samurai four times until the flat of his hand burned and the thin cheeks had turned a rough scarlet. As the samurai's head lolled, trying to collect his strength, the red hands fell, tracing the thin muscles of the neck down to the pale chest. Rough hands spread down – over the Samurai's nipples, jerking him to life. Someone laughed sharply – cutting through the suddenly heavy atmosphere – and the pent up lust.  
  
Glancing around, realizing the quality of silence for what it was, Japanese spilled from his  lips. Yoshi realized that for the first time in a long time, he could taste fear on his tongue – and before he could get out some suitable English – something that would change their lust to anger – something that would turn the tide toward a place he could understand and control – the lips descended again, moving from his mouth, down his neck, licking his collarbone before swirling around his nipples.  
  
 _ **It's hard to stifle a whimper of pain, but it's twice as hard to still a moan of pleasure. It had been far too long for the samurai – the memory of a woman too faint – so that he found himself abruptly at odds with himself. He cursed the enemy – and himself for that weakness.**_  
  
“I think he likes it, the fucker,” the first man said.  
“Think he gets wimmin much as one of'em samurai, Kato?”  
“Eh... well, he's gettin' some now.”  
  
The third, quiet man let Yoshi go as Karl drew Yoshi close, his hands jerking open the sash and pulling off the stiff black material – his lips never leaving the quivering flesh. For a moment, there was blissful silence – Kato rubbed his groin absently, feeling his interest perk at the sight of the samurai's mouth silently mouth obscenities ( _no doubt_ ). Then the dark eyes flew open – feet flew forward again, missing the Sergeant's groin – and everyone was on him again.  
  
Fists pummeled – swearing filled the cool night air of the Sergeant's office – and the Japanese found himself curled up on the floor. He got to his knees only to be kicked down again. Cracking his eyes open a little, he could see the black bars of the cell they would eventually throw him into. He hoped. Soon. They would get tired.  
  
Someone pulled him to his knees, taking pleasure no doubt in his imperceptible flinch as the bones of his shoulders protested sharply. Voice floated overhead – debating something – the adequate amount of English he knew hardly helped at a time like this –  
  
“...pretty lips gotta be good for sumthin'...”  
“...blow job...”  
“...idiot! Puttin' a man's treasure near some'un as feral as a dog! He's only good fer one thing.”  
  
Without warning, Yoshi found himself slammed down onto the wood desk. Pain lanced as the open cuts on is face scraped against the hard wood. Paper and writing utensils were hastily removed – and as cool air hit his thighs, as the realization that the Sergeant's desire still ran strong hit the samurai, the slender Japanese tried to twist free. Was slammed down again – his feet knocked apart – thighs spread – and he could hear, like a broken record some one laughing at him. He realized it was himself. Yoshi hoped that he managed to keep it inside. But all hazy worries disappeared, after a finger and then two stretched him uncomfortably. The third finger brought a moan to his lips as he felt something give – tear – and there was the comforting cool of the blood which ran down his thigh, bringing some sort of crystal clarity to the haze of shame and pain.  
  
“Holy shit, the fucker is tight. Better'n those damn whores...”  
“And cheaper too.” Another laugh.  
  
Yoshi wasn't sure if that was good or bad – but when the middle finger hit something – a spark ran through his spine up into his head – something white and breathless and ( _oh kami!_ ) so good. They wanted to come out – words of pleasure – so he bit down hard on those traitorous lips until he could taste blood on his tongue. Blood on his thighs – and blood filled his heart – his mind – as the Sergeant's fingers were replaced with something thicker and longer and harder and more cruel.  
  
The rhythm was fast and uncontrolled. Yoshi took it in silence and plotted his revenge – and held in the pain as his father would expect of his son – but when the Sergeant shifted, something inside him sparked again and his back arched and his hips jerked and someone's hand was stroking his cock until the head leaked cum and when his tormentor came inside of him, he too found wordless light in a sharp white orgasm. After that, he lay there spent, panting heavily ( _gasping_ ) as Darby and then Kato took turn.  
  
 ** _When it was over, the samurai found no strength in his legs – or power to respond – so when they beat him and threw him into the cell, he could only find the presence of mind to pull his clothing back on as though what had happened had never happened... and the samurai vowed that when the time came (not if, when), they would find the price too high to pay._**


	6. Thanks

Yoshi managed to find enough energy despite the drugs running through his body (they had doped him in the end to make him more malleable). Enough energy to follow the Drifter out of the police headquarters, punching the front door guard weakly out onto the street. The Bartender's small blue car pulled up sharply with an offer for a getaway car. Quickly they piled in as the siren rose in a sharp wail behind them. The Samurai, as he shifted in pain on the Bartender's backseat, wondered if this was going to cause more hassle for the Drifter.  
  
He thought it might, but had no energy to care. _The man causes his own trouble easily enough - but it is... kind of him to carry my burdens as well. Those broad shoulders seem like they could carry anything..._ Yoshi cursed the weakness of his body and his heart, as the darkness began to creep over the corners of his eyes. As the Stetson hat began to blur with the car's ceiling. _A weakness I can't afford to have_ , he thought hazily. _And now I owe him._  
  
The Samurai's last thought was what kind of price the Drifter would exact from him. His mouth found it particularly difficult to say thanks.  
  
“Arigatou gozaimasu.”*  
  
Darkness drowned him. The car fell uncomfortably quiet as the Bartender eyed the ever silent Drifter and wondered what had really moved the man into action.  
  
 ** _Such is the world that our unlikely heroes live in. An eye for an eye, a favour for a favour - and mutual acts of kindness are expected. Nothing is for free - even love has strings attached. Yet, the Drifter's price wasn't as high as the Samurai had feared._**  
  
When the Drifter turned to say “No problem”, he discovered that the slight Japanese man had passed out in the backseat, his head bobbing in time with the potholes of the main street. For an instant, his eyes softened. He merely replied, “You're welcome.”

\-----

*Thank you


	7. Resolve

The boy was headstrong in a quiet way – something no doubt inherited from his mother – _headstrong and passionate – acting before thinking, as a young child would_. The old man  understood what was going on. _The last ditch effort of a warrior to burn into his child the hard lessons of life – a desperate act on one's deathbed to ensure that the future would hold strong._ But he could not approve. _This is not the way._  
  
Even as his low, sure rumble rolled around the room as he chanted the healing mantras of his race, the old Japanese man protested in his spirit. As his hands drifted over the thin wrists, over the bruises and the cuts – he said nothing, although his heart faltered. _The signs are there_ ( _the heavy imprint of five fingers pressed down along the lightly muscled hip bone_ ), _Yoshi had endured something more cutting than the pain of the fist_.  
  
So when the Drifter came, the old man knew that the sooner Yoshi paid his debt to the white man, the better. Those brown eyes promised death and violence, and the old man had enough of that for a lifetime. Still, when the Drifter returned with the money unspent ( _and yet the eyes were satisfied, a goal had been reached_ ), Yoshi wanted to talk. The Drifter was invited for a drink. The old man and the young girl watched the Samurai carefully. Yoshi had said nothing to them. No matter. In a household where a thousand words are spoken in silence, they knew what toll it had taken on the young Samurai.  
  
As the evening drew near on the following day, Yoshi prepared. His ponytail, drawn back tightly, his clothing as pristine as could be, his face carefully blank. The two pairs of eyes following the Samurai missed nothing – the stiff back, the tight lips and the hard eyes. Momoko followed the Samurai down the stairs quickly – behind her, her father slowly followed, reluctant to share what had weighed on his mind so heavily.  
  
Her begging was interrupted by her father – and the air suddenly became a bit more tense than usual.  
  
“Take her...” The old man sighed. “You ruined my business... my home... We have to hide here like stray dogs. Last week you almost got yourself killed. Is that not enough? Or won't you rest until Momoko follows in your footsteps?”  
“I have an 'obligation'.”  
“You don't owe anything to this man – He is a foreigner.”  
“What happened to you?” Yoshi shook his head, ignoring the inference ( _it cut too close to the bone, old man, too close_ ). “Where is your pride? Your honour?”  
“Honour? You stay here another day... and someone is going to die. Your father didn't send you here for a medallion. He sent you here to become a man. His kind of man. And this path, though glorified, leads only to destruction!”  
  
Before Yoshi could respond, a familiar car drove up and honked its horn. The Bartender. He turned to watch the man wave invitingly out of the window. It was his destiny, waiting for him. His destiny – and the Drifter – _and the medallion, of course. The medallion. That's what this was all about... the most important thing, yes._  
  
“Yoshi,” his uncle hissed. “Why do you hold so strongly to this path – when you know where it will lead you?”  
“I do what I must,” was the simple reply.  
“What you must? Or what you want? Perhaps it is not the medallion at all – or your father – or your honour.”  
  
Yoshi's head jerked up and he glared at the old man.  
  
“What are you implying?”  
“That foreigner – is offering you something you have wanted all your life, isn't he?”  
  
Momoko's dark eyes darted from the old, lined face to the impassive younger one. Her eyes filled with compassion ( _she understands, like Yoshi, that you sometimes have to do the unforgivable for a fleeting moment of serenity in mutual acceptance_ ) and she wonders if her cousin has ever reached out his hand in the night and met nothingness and despair. She can see it in the Drifter – purpose, yes – violence, most certainly – but there was also a softness, a stillness which spoke of some kind of inner peace...  
  
 _And when he looks at Yoshi_ , she thought, _he sees a precious jewel – and Cousin, who has never seen this in the mirror, cannot help but be drawn to this hope..._  
  
Yoshi is blushing now at his Uncle's implication. He bites his lip, shifts a little, uneasily and then shakes his head slowly.  
  
“I do not think anyone can know their true intentions, Uncle...” His dark eyes meet Momoko's calm gaze ( _and if possible, he realizes that she knows – and his blush deepens in confusion and shame_ ). “...but I... I feel that my place is there – and the medallion – and my father waits for me. For now, we walk this path together... but one day... the foreigner and I – will part. I will return home and whatever you think lies between us will meet a natural end.”  
“You are more foolish than I thought,” the older man says. “But go – go – and play with fire – don't say I didn't warn you.”  
“I won't,” Yoshi nods, trying to keep his voice respectfully demure.  
  
After the Samurai bows and leaves, Momoko watches her father as his shoulders slumps with a sigh. She understands that as well. _The Drifter – Yoshi – have changed everything – but would they change each other? What mark will they leave?_


	8. Last Moments

**Last Moments**

_**In the stillness of the moment before the final battle, a man looks into his future. It is the measure of a man – the ultimate plumb line – what does he see there?** _

Yoshi sits and says nothing – his body aches from a long day of exercise. _Not that I need it,_ he grimaces as he stretches, _but it takes the mind off of the inevitable – and... these recent days have not been kind to me – to us –_

Here, he glances at his ( _blessedly_ ) equally silent partner who has once again placed his plastic cigarette in between his lips. Yoshi wonders what the man is seeing in his mind's eye – but holds his tongue and glances down at the scrap of paper and pen he pulled from his small wallet. Long ago, he supposed, his ancestors before battle found peace with ink and brush and kanji script – but ink and bottle have long become a forgotten art – and the strokes of the brush ( _ah! Like the blade_ ) are replaced by slow scrawl of ball-point pen. 

Silence is not absolute. He can hear the cries of the farmers and shop owners returning to their night routine ( _the last one before bed_ )... And there is a hollow wind which wails in the rocks and far away the sound of water. Beside him, there is the sound of life in the Drifter – and there is the scratch of his pen on paper. Four words, so far - 

_o-tama no chi_

Five syllables. The pen comes to a complete halt.

“Writin' poetry...” The Drifter's husky voice finally breaks the silence ( _a first_ ). “Somethin' your people do, right?”  
“Yes,” Yoshi replies awkwardly, his eyes can't meet the Drifter's. “My father and grandfather spoke of such a tradition... a warrior tames his pen as much as his blade.”  
“Ah... How's it going then?”

Yoshi shifts. Feels more incompetent than ever. He can hear his father's cool voice, full of fulfilled disappointment ( _yes, that's our Yoshi..._ ), can bring to mind his mother's pitying glance... and hear the laughter of his voice, still mocking him as he came against the wooden desk of the man who had taken away something deeper than personal honour. In surprise, he looks down, finding the Drifter's calloused hand gently removing the pen which was threatening to snap in two thanks to his tense grip...

“Not so well, I guess...”  
“I never seem to...” Yoshi winced. “...succeed in what I need to do. If I fail...”

A gentle finger raises his chin and Yoshi finds it hard to meet the man's eye. But Yoshi is brave ( _braver than his father can ever know_ ), and when he looks up, he realizes that there is no condemnation – but quiet understanding. So when the Drifter leans in ( _brim of his hat throws a deep shadow_ ), there is no battle and only surrender.

_ongaku no katana_

_**There is no time – the Drifter's goal's so close as to taste. It is calling him, but he takes the moment and revels in it, knowing that in a few short minutes, the short break must give way to the final challenge.**_

“Yoshi...”

The husky voice whispers as the Samurai draws back, uncertainly.   
  
“What do you want?” Yoshi asks, remembering the dark eyes of the Sergeant.  
“I want...” the Drifter's rough thumb traced the thin lips with a reverence which spoke volumes of something the Samurai could only guess at. “I want time with you – even if it is for a short while...”  
“You will take from me – as the others did – but I will fight you –“  
“Where there is taking,” the Drifter shook his head, stilling his new-found partner. “There will also be giving.”  
“Giving and taking...” Yoshi's eyes slide upwards ( _how can he not know how inviting those innocent eyes look?_ ). “A partnership.”  
“For a time.”  
“I see.”   
“We have things to accomplish. When it is all said and done...” The Drifter trailed off.   
“Then, we can make a decision.” Yoshi finished.  
“Yes. Agreed?”  
“Agreed.” Yoshi held out his hand awkwardly. 

_hikarakuyou_

_**The Drifter took it, stifling a smile, knowing that only the stubborn Samurai could give such a gift. It was not something to be taken lightly – for if roughly stolen, the cost, he fancied, would be incalculable.** _

\----- 

Haiku:

a droplet of blood  
the music of the sword-blade  
blossoms – red leaves fall


	9. Scent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhh... seems like people dig this... So, um, I'll try to update. Need to rewatch it again to get back into the mode for it. Let me know what you guys think anyways. :) Thanks! Reviews are food!

They are huddled behind a rock, looking across, past stunted trees and rough terrain to the encampment. The training camp of the Red Army. He and the Samurai. The Bartender and the Samurai – like a tale out of the old West stories. _Or not._ But he could imagine, _couldn't he?_ Careful to remain quiet, he steps forward, shoulder to shoulder with the slight Japanese warrior and he leans forward and then – catches it. A faint scent. 

A scent of burnt wood, sharp vodka and cigarette smoke ( _although no cigarette has passed either man's lips_ )... the Drifter and the Samurai... Gangbusters...

And the Bartender wonders what had happened in that short half hour – somewhere in between finishing a day of exercise and strategy and leaving camp... Something had happened. Perhaps. He can't take judgement for that either – _a man on the eve of battle must find comfort somewhere_ – and fate's fortune brings together such strange bedfellows.

( _Alexandra..._ )

So he says nothing. As Yoshi pulls back the bow, lithe arms sharply muscled and sure – dark eyes like eagle's. A body full of grace that has come with time and experience... For a moment, the Bartender feels envy, wondering what the hard muscles and soft face would yield under his touch. Instead, he crushes the thought ( _do you want to end up dead at the hands of a drifter?_ ) and focuses on the moment. The cigarette lighter fits well in his palm and the flame that springs forth and lights the fire of a revolution becomes a physical metaphor for the unspoken desires of his hands and hot flesh.

( _Alexandra... your absence has never ached... so heavily..._ )

The bow string is taut. A tense moment. And then release and shouting and blood and fierce urgings – and like orgasm it sweeps past so swiftly in sharp-edged moments which blur together until it is a haze... And through it all, he can only see the passion of the Samurai – and what will never be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shortness!
> 
> *ducks rotten fruit*
> 
> Up next... Yoshi vs. Number 2 and dark times. :)


End file.
